


Hot (Deux)

by TheVeryLastValkyrie



Series: And They Fell Like Dominoes [12]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeryLastValkyrie/pseuds/TheVeryLastValkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of a filthy rich boy and a clever dick girl at one of the world's most prestigious universities; of cheap wine and red plush; of betrayal, and bad blood, and her reading glasses. This time, she remembers he's easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot (Deux)

**Author's Note:**

> Migrated from my Tumblr. Here be F words, and a lot of other words besides.

So the storm breaks, sucking the red hot city night back into itself. The first droplets splatter on the window of the cab, then chill her bare arms as she hurries up the concrete steps, over the black and white tiles of her porch. The house is cool, which would have been welcome up to a minute before; Annie removes a bottle of wine, white, and a bottle of milk, skimmed, placing them side-by-side on the granite countertop. She considers both, watching the glass sweat, listening out for the tapping of branches against the window which will keep her under the covers with the door locked, even now (heights aren’t all she’s scared of).

But the tapping, and then the banging, and then the buzzing comes from her front door, not her kitchen window.

So Annie stands in the doorway with one leg up, one finger hooked into the strap of her slingback shoe. She wipes the same finger on the other hand beneath her eyes, picking up smudges of tiredness and mascara.

The wind picks up, and the branch begins to tap.

So she opens the door, and Ollie’s standing on the black and white tiles of her porch, still with one extra button undone.

“I was just thinking about fucking you,” he says casually, pushing wet hair back off his wet brow. His shoulders sparkle with raindrops, and the street behind him is empty and clean. There’s nothing, not really, nothing but the tender sound of rain pattering on the little chilli plants she has in her planters, the ones she pays someone to take care of. “But going on ten years of wanting you isn’t worth it, not if that’s all it’s about. I thought about that, even though you didn’t want me to…probably _because_ you didn’t want me to, and I’m bloody-minded, you know that.” Ollie raises his chin, his expression as empty and clean as the street. “Dress on or off. I’m prepared to negotiate.”

His chin irritates her. It’s stubborn, and he’s been cold turkey from shaving for a while now, and being cut and dried and civilised the way she should want him to be just isn’t who he is. He’s Ollie, after all, poor rusty rich boy with his heart on his sleeve.

“Off,” she says quietly (rationally, reasonably). “I’m too hot to keep it on.”

Of course, he puts her down right on the puddle of condensation from the dripping wine bottle. The liquid soaks into her knickers (they’re lucky she’s too hot to keep anything on). She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him against her, into her, perched on the counter she chose for its pretty pattern of grain. She only half-notices as one shoe slowly works itself off and drops to the floor, but she’d have decided to be too hot to keep it on anyway. She licks a path from his stubborn lip to his stubborn chin and back again, then sighs, then goes blind with the feel of it.

He’s Ollie, after all.

And if Ollie is all he is, then Annie is all she’ll ever be – Annie, with the feel of her like a fist, trapping him wherever he wanders, wherever he roams. She’s a satin fist, way down where, a velvet glove done up with a silk bow way down there, but she was lying when she agreed she’s scared of being high. She likes getting high off him, and on him, and rocking and rolling her hips, and doing the twist. She likes, and she loves, and he’d think about love, only she’s keeping time on his back with one bare foot and one sharp stiletto (one he can feel through his shirt, Jesus fucking _Christ_ ).

So the storm breaks, and they fuck, and they think about love, and all that happens is they end up leaving the milk out all night.

So they fuck a few more times, and they think about love, and all that happens is she waits cross-legged, swathed in his shirt with one extra button open, while he nips out to the expensive corner shop and brings back the wrong kind of milk.

“I’m not ironing that shirt.” She’s drinking black coffee with her green eyes slitted.

“I’m not replacing that milk.” He’s smelling the bloody, rosy smell of her still slickly sticking to him, and being happy (so it’s a good thing she doesn’t mind about the milk, isn’t it, not in the slightest).


End file.
